


A Wolf and A Lark

by tinymacaroni



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon-Typical Violence, Caring Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, First Kiss, Fix-It of Sorts, Geralt Learns To Talk About His Feelings, Hurt Jaskier | Dandelion, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, M/M, Minor Triss Merigold/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Not Beta Read, Pissed Off Jaskier | Dandelion, Post-Episode 6, Serious Injuries, Werewolf Jaskier | Dandelion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-28
Updated: 2020-04-28
Packaged: 2021-03-01 23:20:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,288
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23895229
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tinymacaroni/pseuds/tinymacaroni
Summary: A year and a half after he pushed Jaskier away, Geralt is hired to kill a werewolf, and finds an unexpected familiar face.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 29
Kudos: 475
Collections: Geraskier





	A Wolf and A Lark

It was a standard enough job, really. A werewolf had been spotted near the town every full moon for the last several months. It hadn't hurt anyone yet, which was a little strange, but he wasn't going to blame them for being proactive. Especially not right now - his coin purse was nearly empty, and his armor needed replacing soon.

He'd seen the notice in another, much smaller village and had decided to wait until the moon was nearly full before riding out. The less time he had to spend around so many people and sounds and smells the better. As it was, he timed the ride well, coming up on the edge of town just as the sun began to set. He debated trying to find the town's alderman to secure the contract, but decided better of it. People were often less likely to run him out of town when he came with proof the job had been done, instead of an offer to do it. So instead he rode Roach down a path through the woods bordering the town, finding a secluded clearing and tying her off to a tree. The moon was already rising, and he wasted no time as he got out the potions he might need. A howl rang through the air, and he patted Roach gently, assuring her he'd be back soon before taking off into the night.

The trees were spaced out enough that the moonlight broke through the canopy easily, casting everything in a silvery gleam and providing plenty of light for him to see by. It was, perhaps, the only convenient thing about fighting werewolves. He started by heading generally towards where the howl had come from, and as he grew closer he could see signs of where the creature had passed through. Werewolves were not typically very stealthy, and this one was no exception. Snapped twigs, clawed-out gouges in the bark of the tree roots and the occasional paw-shaped indent in the soft ground made tracking it the easy part. The hard part was going to be catching up to it, and of course the hardest part would be fighting it. 

Branches snagged at his hair and armor and roots made navigation difficult, and by the time he'd caught up to the beast the moon was high in the sky. It looked like a normal wolf, mostly, but it was larger than most wolves would be, and its fur was a deep brown where wolves in this region were grey. He'd managed to back it into a corner where the trees were too close together for it to escape easily, and it seemed to be coming to the same realization. It turned, snarling, ears back and hackles raised, and Geralt drew his sword from the sheathe on his back, taking his own defensive stance. 

The wolf lunged at him, ready to take a bite out of his throat; he raised his sword to parry it and used his other hand to push it back with Aard. It hit one of the trees with a dull thud and a pained whimper, barely catching its footing as it fell to the ground. They went back and forth like this for some time, but at the first opening it saw, the wolf took off again, running between a patch of trees behind Geralt and disappearing into the darkness of the thicker woods. Geralt swore, pulling out a Cat potion and downing it quickly, giving chase as the potion burned through his veins and turned his eyes an inky black.

He hardly needed the potion, as it turned out - he had gotten a few good hits in on the wolf and the trail of blood it had left was more than enough to follow it by. Still, he didn't feel it was quite a waste of a potion. The forest floor was uneven and he was slowed down enough by trying to navigate it, and if he couldn't see it… well. He was glad he had taken the potion.

Every so often he would catch a glimpse of the wolf, and once or twice he'd even managed to draw it into combat again, but it seemed intent on running away more than anything else, which was unusual behavior in a werewolf, to say the least. The sky was beginning to lighten where he could see it through the leaves, and he knew he was running out of time. Lycanthropy affects humans all the time, regardless of the phase of the moon. It typically causes rage, bloodlust, and an overall ferocity that makes it hard to be part of a society even for those few that manage to keep most of their own humanity intact. But most, including this one, only took up wolf form during the full moon, and he doubted he was going to get paid if he brought back the body of a human, even if it had been a feral beast on the inside.

He'd finally caught up to the creature as the sky above them began to turn pink, and he fought fiercely, knowing he only had a short window to kill it before this whole endeavor was rendered pointless. He drew the sign of Aard in the air again, throwing the wolf against another tree in hopes of stunning it and keeping it from escaping once more. The sound it made as it hit the tree, though, changed as it fell - from a wolf's cry, to a decidedly  _ human _ shout. Geralt was too late. He scowled, hitting a tree with the side of his fist in frustration before taking a deep breath to steady himself. He may as well finish the job, or at least get the poor damned thing away from this town. It didn't seem to mean them any harm, but no good would come of scared townsfolk deciding they were done waiting and trying to hunt it down themselves.

He strode forward, but froze when he saw the shape of the human on the ground before him, badly wounded and a little thinner than he remembered, but familiar. Deeply familiar. He knelt down beside Jaskier's body where it lay on the forest floor, utterly still.

" _ Fuck. _ "

\--

Geralt returned to the clearing where he'd left Roach, carrying Jaskier's limp form, and she nickered softly when she saw him. He came up beside her, and she pushed her muzzle against Jaskier's head. "I know, girl. I missed him too." He laid Jaskier on the ground carefully, as though he were made of glass, and moved to his saddlebags to get what he would need to clean and dress the wounds. He tried not to dwell on the fact that most of those wounds had been made by his own blade.

Pushing those thoughts aside, he slipped into the mindset he used to block out the pain when tending to his own wounds, almost able to forget this was Jaskier in front of him and focusing solely on his injuries. He started by pouring a small amount of a dark and foul-smelling potion over the open wounds, to burn out any infection, then slathered them in salve and bandaged them neatly before rolling him onto his front and doing the same for the cuts and slashes on his back. He pressed gently on each rib, testing them, and found a few were broken, so he wrapped bandages around his chest to immobilize them as well as he could without restricting his breathing too much.

Nothing else seemed to be broken, but he was pale and clammy and his pulse was thready. Geralt carefully pulled one of his own shirts around him and covered him in the blanket he had, thin as it was, and after a moment of deliberation he layered his cloak over the blanket. The sun was rising, but it would still be cold in the forest for a few hours yet, and he wanted to make sure Jaskier was warm enough while he tried to get a fire going. He managed to snag a hare, too, and butchered it and put it over the fire to cook. The whole time, Jaskier didn't stir, or make so much as a noise. 

Geralt could hear his pulse, he didn't  _ need _ to check it, but he found himself doing so anyway, taking a slim wrist into his hand and pressing against the artery there. It was a little stronger, which was a good sign, but still weaker than he'd like and far too fast. Sighing softly, he gently placed the bard's hand back down and picked up his sword, cleaning it until it gleamed and sharpening it until the edge couldn't get any finer. He tried to ignore the wrenching pain in his gut when he remembered it was Jaskier's blood he was wiping from his blade, Jaskier's flesh that had dulled the silver's edge.

The hare was a little overcooked by the time he pulled it from the fire, but he couldn't bring himself to care, tearing into it savagely with his teeth. A reminder that he was every bit as monstrous, if not more so, than the man who lay across the fire from him, werewolf or not.

Not knowing what else to do with himself, he just sat beside the fire, staring at his - well, not his friend, he supposed. He lost the right to call Jaskier that a year and a half ago on that mountain, and he'd known it even as he'd yelled those awful, damning words. "I fucked up, Roach," he murmured as he looked up at the horse. She snorted as if to say "I told you so," and he nodded. "Yeah." 

The sun was beginning its descent through the sky, and Geralt tried to think of what time dawn had broken, how long Jaskier had been unconscious. Too long, he thought. Too long, and it was all his  _ fucking _ fault for not doing his research like he should have, like he always did, all because his armor was getting a little worn down and he cared more about the money than the creature - the man - he'd been hired to hunt. It wasn't like lycanthropy was incurable, and the notice had even said it hadn't caused any harm yet. He was stupid and selfish and he  _ knew better, _ and now Jaskier was going to pay the price for his mistakes. Again.

He'd realized he'd begun to doze off when he was awoken by the snap of a twig nearby, all his senses flaring to life at once, ready for a fight. It was just a deer, though, and it turned tail and ran when it saw Geralt. He sighed, tension draining from his body as the quick flash adrenaline burned off, his shoulders falling and his posture slumping forward. He rose to check on Jaskier again, and was glad to see some color had returned to his skin, and his heart rate seemed to be steadying out. Now all he really needed was rest, and to not move for a few days, at least. Silver caused more damage and slowed down healing for most monsters, which was precisely why he used it, but now it meant he and the bard were stuck in this clearing until his body had gotten far enough in the healing process that he wouldn't just tear his wounds open again and bleed out.

Dusk had begun to settle over them as he'd slept, and he stoked the fire with a stick, adding a couple pieces of wood to the pile. If he fell asleep again and the fire burned out during the night, they'd be left vulnerable and Jaskier would probably freeze to death. He looked up, tracing the shapes of the constellations as they grew clearer in the sky, and watching the orange sparks from the flames drift up, up, up until they faded away. A half-formed memory came to him, a story his mother had told him once, about those sparks dancing all the way into the night sky, where they settled in to become the stars. He'd believed her, then, he'd believed all her stories. Up until the last one she told him, anyway. The betrayal that left him in Kaer Morhen, that made him what he was. He'd never truly forgiven her, but the ache of it had faded over the years, along with his memories of her. He couldn't remember the feelings of pain and loss any more than he could remember her face or her voice.

He wondered what Jaskier had felt, up on the mountain. Wondered what he'd thought, making that trek down, and what he thought now. He thought about those questions a lot, truth be told, almost as often as he thought about what he might say to him if they ever met. But now Jaskier was here, and at some point he would wake up and they would have to talk, and Geralt wasn't even sure where he'd begin. The only thing he was certain of was that he didn't deserve forgiveness, even as a small flicker of hope in his heart dared to yearn for it.

\--

Jaskier woke slowly, squinting his eyes shut against the bright midmorning sun. The first thing he noticed was that he was in an absolutely  _ tremendous _ amount of pain. The second thing he noticed was an incredibly familiar horse looking down at him.

"Roach? What are you doing here?" is what he tried to say. What actually came out was more of a dry murmur, and it scratched his throat terribly. Then he heard his name, and the shifting of armor as someone stood, and realized if Roach were here, that must mean-

_ Fuck. _ Jaskier groaned and squeezed his eyes shut in a scowl as Geralt knelt beside him and seemed to be fussing about with his bandages. His bandages? Oh, gods, the full moon had been last night. Was Geralt hired to  _ kill _ him? And if so, why hadn't he gotten it over with and been done with it? There was too much happening right now, and pain, so much fucking  _ pain. _ He couldn't think.

He felt a hand on his back push him up slightly, and a waterskin touched his lips. He took a cautious sip, and then a few more, until he had drained half the skin. He didn't trust Geralt as far as he could throw him, which wasn't terribly far at all, but he was parched and the water was sweet and soothingly cool as it ran down his throat. He tried to sit up, but his ribs lit up with blinding white pain and he felt cuts reopen across his torso and he  _ screamed, _ undoing any good the water had done for the pain in his throat. He couldn't remember the last time he'd been in this much pain. Then again, he couldn't remember the last time he'd been cut with silver, much less nearly slaughtered by it.

"Don't try to move," Geralt's voice rumbled from above, as if he hadn't figured that much out already. "You're badly wounded." He seemed reluctant to admit he was the one who'd done the wounding, even if it was clear from the guilt etched across his face. After four years, Jaskier still hadn't forgotten how to read him, how to find the emotions he pretended were buried so deep.

The waterskin touched his lips again and he drank the rest of it greedily, then laid back down with Geralt's guidance. Oh, he  _ hated _ this. Months spent hoping to cross paths with the witcher, even longer spent trying to move past the whole thing, and this was how they finally reunited. It would be poetic if it weren't so fucking unpleasant.

"We have to stay here for a few days, maybe a week. I'm sure you'd like to be rid of me as soon as you can, but I won't be able to move you away from here safely until your body heals itself a little more." Geralt said all this casually over his shoulder as he messed with something in the saddlebags, as if he the mortal peril Jaskier was in meant little to him. Which was probably the case. Jaskier could barely form a coherent thought, and could only process about half of the words Geralt was saying, but he was getting the gist of it. He was stuck here, for who knows how long, with the person he least wanted to see, and every tiny movement wracked his whole body with pain. Lovely.

"There's probably some silver in your bloodstream, which will hurt like a bitch."  _ It does, _ Jaskier didn't bother trying to say. "Here, drink." Geralt held the waterskin to his lips again, and this time he drained the whole thing in one go, though it tasted strange. "There's something in there to help neutralize the silver, and opium to lessen the pain and help you sleep. I'm… sorry, Jaskier. Truly." He didn't elaborate, and Jaskier wasn't sure what exactly he was apologizing for. There were just so many possibilities at the moment.

The pain did begin to ebb, though, for which he was thankful, and the opium pulled him back into a dreamless sleep. The next time he woke, the sky was dark, and the pain was back. He groaned, and immediately Geralt was there with another skin of water, laced with that strange taste again. A few more times they did this, and each time Jaskier felt a little less like his veins were full of fire, which he supposed was a good thing. The pain still clouded his thoughts, but it felt like more and more of that haze was from the opium now, rather than his own mind.

When he finally woke with a mostly clear head, it was like breaking through the surface of a lake. He was careful not to try and move much, but when Geralt came over with the waterskin he managed to croak out a request for undosed water. Geralt obliged, and also brought some food, which Jaskier let himself be fed piece by piece because when he tried lifting his arms, they felt like they were full of lead, and he could feel the strain sending bright sparks of pain down his nerves. It was humiliating, but there was at least some satisfaction in the fact that he'd done the same thing for Geralt at least once or twice, back before they had… parted ways.

The food was followed by more water, at which point he felt just functional enough to finally rasp out a full sentence. "What... the  _ fuck _ … did you  _ do _ ?" He heard Roach nicker somewhere above him, and was at least glad to know she was still on his side, even after all this time. Geralt grimaced, and told Jaskier what he had already managed to figure out on his own, for the most part: the local town had, in fact, hired him to "dispose" of the werewolf living in their woods, and Jaskier had managed to avoid being murdered long enough for Geralt to see him turn back - but only barely.

"I didn't know it was you, Jaskier."

"But you were still planning to kill me."

"I was. It was… a mistake. I'm sorry.

Jaskier gave a hollow laugh, then winced as he felt it in his ribs. "I think we're well past sorry these days, Geralt." The pain was starting to cloud his mind again, and he sighed. "I just want to sleep." Geralt nodded and proffered the opium-laced waterskin again, helping him drink from it before letting him rest.

This time when he woke, the sun was high in the sky above their little clearing, and he could smell meat cooking. "G'ralt," he murmured, managing to move his arm enough to reach for the waterskin himself this time. It was mostly a symbolic action, as he still couldn't actually lift the weight of the skin to drink from it, but it made him feel a little better. "Can I sit up?"

"Probably, if you don't mind me helping."

"Nope, it's fine. Great, really, being nursed by -  _ ngh _ \- the man who told me he never -  _ ow, fuck _ \- wanted to see me again." He spoke as Geralt guided him up and turned him so he could rest his back against Roach's saddle, which sat on the ground and looked like he'd been using it for the same purpose earlier. Jaskier couldn't find it in himself to feel guilty about taking the witcher's seat, though.

"Jaskier, you know I-" Geralt stopped, blue eyes filled with cold fury meeting his.

"Do I?" He narrowed his eyes when he got no reply. "No, go on Geralt. Tell me what I know. Tell me I  _ had _ to have known you didn't mean it when you told me that your only  _ fucking _ wish was for me to leave. Tell me about how you didn't mean it, while I had to find my way down that godsforsaken mountain. While I drank myself nearly to death for days. While I spent months trying to find you, and over a year trying to forget you.  _ Tell me what I know, Geralt. _ " Jaskier was shaking and breathing heavily, and it wasn't just from the pain and exhaustion. "Or don't. Honestly, I don't really want to hear it." Tears pricked at the corners of his eyes, and he swallowed hard, hating himself for crying over all this even now. Hated that he couldn't get up and leave, clear his head a bit.

"You're right. I'm sorry, I-"

"Would you have killed me? In the woods, I mean. If it had been someone else you'd found after sunrise." Jaskier was eager to change the subject.

"I…I don't know, honestly."

"Well, at least you're honest I suppose. Why, though? I mean you know as well as I do that there are cures for lycanthropy, fuck, we helped  _ make _ a cure for someone once."

"I needed the coin." Geralt refused to look up, didn't want to see the disgust he knew he would see in Jaskier's eyes.

" _ Geralt. _ "

"I know. It's not a decision I'm proud of."

"Have you really made any you are proud of?"

"Saving you from Filandravel, that very first day." The words came from Geralt before he even thought it through, and he cringed. Not the time. "Sorry." Jaskier shrugged, hissing a little in pain. "Can I get you anything?"

Jaskier ignored his question. "How long until I can leave?" He didn't like the look in Geralt's eyes as he asked. "What aren't you telling me?"

"I'm not- we should be able to leave in a few more days, but-"

"'We'? There is no 'we,' anymore, Geralt, you made  _ damned _ sure of that."

"That's what I'm  _ trying _ to explain to you, Jaskier, but you aren't listening! I can take you back to town and get you a room in an inn, but you'll still have to keep to the bed for-"

"Oh well that's just bloody fucking  _ brilliant _ isn't it? I almost wish you  _ had  _ just killed me back there, and we could both have been done with it all!" A hush came over the clearing, and for once it was Geralt who broke the silence.

"You don't mean that."

"…You're right. I don't. But I'm still pretty fucking pissed at you." He sighed. "Is there any food?" Geralt didn't say anything, but he did bring over some of the dove he'd been roasting and some dried fruit from his saddlebag. The silence was awkward, to say the least, and it was only made worse by the fact that Geralt still had to hand-feed him and hold the waterskin up for him to drink.

"Your bandages probably need changing."

"Of course they do," Jaskier muttered. "Well, unless Roach has some magic first aid skills you never told me about, I suppose you better get started then." It was barely evening, but he was exhausted. Healing poisoned wounds that almost killed you was, apparently, a rather taxing process.

Geralt rummaged through his bag for supplies, pulling his black shirt from Jaskier's shoulders and carefully unwrapping each wound, checking for signs of infection and making sure they were beginning to heal before applying another coating of salve and a new wrapping, before moving on to the next. Jaskier tried to hold still and stay quiet, but it  _ hurt, _ and Geralt was so fucking  _ close _ and his hands were so warm everywhere they touched. All he could smell was the sharp medicinal herbs of the salve and  _ Geralt. _ Leather and sweat and earth and spice and stray whiffs of Roach. He knew his sense of smell was more powerful than before he'd been cursed, but he was still surprised he hadn't realized just how many layers there were to Geralt's scent before.

Between the pain and the dizzying smells, he was quickly losing his thoughts again. They weren't even foggy this time, just… blank. It felt like all his wounds were being freshly opened as Geralt poked and prodded, checking the color and temperature of the skin around each one before applying that thick, stinging salve. He was being careful, but the wounds were deep, and his touch burned against torn flesh. Jaskier hadn't even realized he was crying until a tear splashed on his hand, and he was shaking like a leaf. 

"Done." Geralt leaned back, giving the bard a last look-over to make sure he hadn't missed anything. Once he was satisfied, he held the opium skin up to Jaskier who nodded weakly and drank the whole thing. Geralt helped him back into the shirt and gently laid him down, not missing the absence of complaint this time, before spreading the blanket and cloak back over him. He pretended he didn't see as Jaskier tried to roll over, felt a rib shift, and rolled right back. He knew he must hate being seen this weak, being cared for like this, especially by Geralt of all people.

He stoked the fire, seating himself back against a tree and listening to Jaskier's breath even out, preparing for another night of watching over him. At least they'd spoken. It was something.

\--

The next time Jaskier woke, Geralt was asleep, snoring softly against the broad trunk of a tree nearby. For a moment, Jaskier's heart  _ ached,  _ remembering all the times he'd seen Geralt like this before. All the nights they'd spent together, the trust they'd had between them. He pushed the thought away, struggling up into a sitting position and trying to ignore Geralt's scent coming off the black fabric draping his shoulders, cloying around his head and in his nose. He didn't know where he'd left his clothes before he'd transformed, or any of his other gear, and he knew he ought to be thankful that Geralt had the spare garment at all, but he was finding it difficult. Especially since he'd be able to remember where his things were a lot more easily if he hadn't just nearly  _ died. _

He reached over to the nearest saddlebag, hoping to find some food and water without having to wake Geralt; he was rather enjoying this brief time to himself, as much as he could at any rate. He managed to get his fingertips against the leather of the bag, and if he could reach juuuust a bit further - and then he heard a "pop," and a cry echoed in his ears that he realized belatedly was his own.

"Jaskier?" Geralt was awake and moving towards him in an instant, and a quiet part of Jaskier knew to be grateful that he'd always been a light sleeper, even as the rest of his mind was occupied. "What happened?"

"Dunno," he gasped. "Something… popped. Right side." He was struggling for breath and could feel tears welling up as he squeezed his eyes shut. He was so fucking  _ tired _ of crying. Geralt's hand came to his side, feeling gently around his ribcage. Jaskier's eyes flew open and he lurched as Geralt's touch sent a sudden wave of nauseating pain through his side, and the witcher calmly eased him back.

"One of your ribs shifted. Brace yourself, this won't be pleasant."

"What won't-  _ FUCK! _ " Geralt pressed against the misaligned bone, pushing it back into place, and Jaskier was fairly certain he actually blacked out for a moment. When he came to, he was slumped over against the witcher, his shoulders shaking and tears slipping down his cheeks. He was tired of all of it, really - the pain, the crying, the shaking, the  _ helplessness. _

Geralt ran a hand soothingly up and down his spine, and he didn't even have the energy to be mad about it. He ended up falling asleep like that, having been awake for all of maybe fifteen minutes total, though "falling asleep" was a generous way to put it; "passed out" would have probably been a more accurate description. Geralt stayed like that, even as he could feel Jaskier slip into unconsciousness. It was selfish, he knew, but he'd missed Jaskier more than he'd realized. His scent, his warmth, his  _ presence, _ were all comforting to him. So he stole a few of these moments for himself, brushing the sweat-dampened hair from Jaskier's brow and letting his touch linger, before finally pulling himself away and letting his reluctant companion rest.

He busied himself tending to Roach as Jaskier slept, taking her to a more open area to graze for a while, brushing out her mane. They'd be able to leave soon, and the knowledge sat in the pit of his stomach like a rock. It wasn't that he didn't want Jaskier to get better, of course, but he was sure that Jaskier would want to be rid of him as soon as he'd secured a room in the town. Things hadn't gotten any less tense between them, and it seemed to only confirm Geralt's fears: in one fit of anger four years ago, he had managed to destroy the only real outside friendship he'd made in his decades on the Path.

He led Roach back into the clearing and began to pack his bags, preparing for them to leave once Jaskier woke. He didn't want to make the bard spend any more time in his company than needed, and he was confident Jaskier's wounds had begun to heal well enough that he would be fine to travel the short distance back to town. He put Roach's saddle back on, making a few adjustments to her tack and ensuring the saddlebags were even, then sat beside Jaskier to wait. It felt a little voyeuristic, watching him sleep, but Geralt wanted to take in as much of their dwindling time together as he could, doubting that he would be lucky enough to see him again after they parted ways this time.

By the time Jaskier finally began to stir, dusk was falling and the stars were once again beginning to come into view, bright specks of light against the purple sky. Geralt helped him sit up this time, checking his ribs delicately to ensure they were all in the right places still. When he was certain they were, he rose and held a hand out to Jaskier, who took it cautiously. Geralt pulled him to his feet, walking him towards Roach and setting him up to lean against her.

"What's this?" Jaskier's legs shook beneath him, but he was managing to keep a fair bit of his weight on the horse, and she felt stable and secure behind him.

"We're leaving." Geralt packed away the bedroll and kicked dirt on the last of the embers in the fire, then draped his blanket over Roach's saddle and stood in front of Jaskier, wrapping his cloak carefully around him.

"Wait, really?" Jaskier's eyes were wide, disbelieving, as he tracked Geralt's movements. "Are you sure?"

Geralt shrugged. "You should be healed enough, it's not a long trip. Here." He held out his arms and helped Jaskier up, setting him in the saddle and taking a seat behind him on Roach's flank. He took the reins and moved them around Jaskier so he could hold them to either side of the bard, and Jaskier leaned his weight back against the witcher's broad chest. It wasn't an ideal way to ride, but he didn't want to risk Jaskier falling off without the stirrups and Geralt's arms helping him stay in place. At least he could see over Jaskier easily enough with the way Jaskier was leaning heavily against him.

Once he was satisfied that Jaskier was secure, he gave Roach a light squeeze with his legs, urging her to start walking, and guided her carefully until they were out on the main path again. He kept her at an intermediate ambling gait, trying to hurry while making the ride as smooth as possible for Jaskier, though he could still hear and feel the small sounds of pain coming from him every so often.

Soon, though, the lights of the town began to shine on the horizon, and Geralt found the first inn he could and urged Roach to a stop, dismounting easily before helping Jaskier down and into his arms. He hoisted him up in his arms just as he had when he'd first found him, and muttered a swift apology before opening the door to the inn, bringing all conversation inside to a halt.

"I found this man in the woods, mauled by the werewolf," he proclaimed, pretending not to notice Jaskier's bitter scowl. "He needs a bed to rest in, and I'll pay when I return to collect the bounty on the creature." Jaskier gave a brief start in his arms, and he held him just a little tighter, silently begging the bard to trust him. Apparently, Jaskier got the memo, because he quickly added in his own theatrics.

"It was terrible," he croaked, giving a rather convincing cough. "A great beast, with razor sharp claws and eyes that held such malice… But the witcher here saved my life, and I will be forever in his debt." Geralt only caught the venom dripping from the last sentence because he had known Jaskier for so long; to everyone else in the room it was quite the believable performance.

"Oh, the poor dear!" The innkeeper's wife hurried around the counter to fuss over him, clucking like a worried hen.

"He'll be alright, I've treated his wounds, from this point he just needs to rest. Do you have a room to spare?"

"Of course! Here, follow me." She led them down a hall to a room on the ground floor, opening the door for Geralt so he could set Jaskier down on the bed.

"Thank you, ma'am. Is there room in your stable for me to put my horse up as well, perchance?" He stood carefully between her and Jaskier, absolutely certain the latter was rolling his eyes at Geralt's attempts to be charming. She nodded and he left Jaskier for a moment to lead Roach into the stable and relieve her of the saddlebags, bringing those back inside with him. "I'll leave tonight to hunt down the monster that did this, and your town will be safe," he assured the kindly woman before shutting the door of the room. The moment he was confident they wouldn't be heard, Jaskier snorted derisively.

"Did I just hear you say 'perchance'? I didn't know your vocabulary had grown so broad, Geralt!"

"Hmm." The witcher was busy sorting through his packs, pulling out supplies he would need and some food and water for Jaskier. "So, what's your brilliant plan then? I mean, I'm the big bad werewolf and I'm right here, so-"

"Don't worry about it." Geralt stood and made for the door ignoring Jaskier's noises of protest.

"Oh isn't that  _ just _ like you, go storming off into the night without so much as-"

" _ Jaskier. _ " The bard's mouth shut, but the irritated look on his face remained. Geralt ignored it. "I'll be back soon." With that, he left, leaving Jaskier to fume in the silence of the drafty room and the glow of the single candle beside the bed.

\--

Geralt  _ hated _ being in towns like this. Large, crowded, reeking of a thousand people and animals and their food and their waste, the air buzzing with a hundred different conversations. It drove him mad, and it was especially bad when he was already… not anxious, witchers didn't  _ get _ anxious, but -  _ concerned. _ He made his way back out to the woods, following Jaskier's scent now, just glad to actually have a real plan for the first time in days.

\--

Jaskier slept through most of the night, curled up on his less bruised side, burying his face in Geralt's cloak to block out the scents of everyone else in the inn. If there was one thing his curse had given him, it was a newfound respect for Geralt's ability to stay in towns at all without going absolutely berserk. He'd always known that it was a lot for the witcher's senses to handle, but knowing and understanding were two very different things.

The innkeeper knocked gently around dawn, bringing in a bowl of steaming porridge and a jug of water. Jaskier pushed himself up to sit against the headboard, taking the food gratefully. It warmed him nicely, and he savored the feeling as well as the taste, watching the sunrise out his window. All in all it would have been a quite pleasant morning, but for the buzzing worry in his head. Geralt hadn't come back, and Jaskier didn't know what his plan was or how long he'd expected to leave for. He knew the witcher would come back, since he hadn't taken Roach with him, but the uncertainty still ate at Jaskier. And then, of course, there was the question of what would happen when he did finally return.

Jaskier wanted to forgive Geralt, he really did. He'd missed travelling together, the banter between them, the comfort of Geralt's presence. But he  _ hadn't _ missed this part, being left behind and in the dark, as if he were a child who couldn't be trusted with Geralt's plans. And, of course, this was assuming Geralt even  _ wanted _ him back. He'd seemed to be happy enough in Jaskier's company, and he'd apologized plenty of times, but what if he got tired of Jaskier again? What if they just weren't as compatible as they thought?

His head was spinning and he was thinking himself in circles, and eventually he just gave up. He lay back down, still holding Geralt's cloak tight against him, and resolved to just wait and see how things played out. He drifted off like that, and dreamt of his witcher.

\--

Geralt returned that evening, entering the inn with a massive wolf's corpse slung over his shoulder and requesting directions to the alderman's home. By the time he'd returned with his bounty, Jaskier was awake, roused by the din of celebration outside his door. He was rubbing sleep from his eyes when Geralt entered the room, and his eyes widened in shock before he immediately began to look ill, pulling the cloak up against his face.

"Gods, you smell  _ awful, _ what on earth did you do?"

"Killed a wolf, brought it back, passed it off as a werewolf. No one here was going to be able to tell the difference."

"Explains the smell I suppose, you positively reek of death."

"Yes, well, I'm sorry if I offend your delicate canine sensibilities, but at least you're not the one who died." Geralt rolled his eyes a little, slinging a pack off his shoulders and tossing it gently onto the bed. "Found your things in a cave up north of the woods. Your lute was missing though, someone must have-"

"Oh, I sold my lute. Ages ago." Jaskier was only half-focused on the conversation, not noticing Geralt frozen in place as he pawed through his bag, pulling out his cleanest clothes and beginning to get dressed.

"Wait, you- you  _ sold _ Filavandrel's lute?"

"Needed the money, and I can't really play in front of crowds anymore." His limbs were stiff as he pulled them through the garments, and dizziness was threatening the edges of his mind again, but he had more pressing concerns as the sounds and scents of celebration grew steadily in the rest of the inn. "I know you probably want to be rid of me, but I still can't really walk, before you leave would you mind-"

"Wait, slow down. Slow down." Geralt urged him back onto the bed, taking a seat on the edge of it. "Jaskier, we need to talk."

Jaskier's heart sank. "Geralt, no, please can we just- I don't want to do this again. I can't."

"No, this is… It's important." Jaskier let out a noise between a sigh and a whine, letting his head fall back to rest on his shoulders, gazing up at the ceiling to avoid looking at Geralt.

"Okay. Go ahead then, talk." His heart was pounding, and he knew the witcher could hear it, but he told himself he didn't care.

Geralt took a deep breath, steeling himself to just say the words he needed to say. "Jaskier, the things I said to you were… unforgivable. I was hurt and I was angry and I took it out on you, and you didn't deserve that. I know that I can never take those words back, and I know I can never make it up to you, but I've missed you." He longed to clasp Jaskier's hand in his own, but resisted, pushing on with his speech. "You were… you  _ are _ one of the most important people in my life, if you'll give me a second chance. I'm sorry." His shoulders dropped a little as he finished, as if a weight had fallen from them, and he hung his head, afraid to look at Jaskier.

Silence hung in the air, and Geralt was preparing to leave, accepting the rejection, when Jaskier began to  _ laugh.  _ Geralt looked up, confused and a little hurt - was Jaskier laughing at him? He knew he wasn't great at discussing his feelings, and probably sounded a little awkward doing it, but-

"Oh, we really are idiots, aren't we?" Geralt's confusion only grew as Jaskier reached for his hand, weaving his fingers between Geralt's. "Here I've been worrying that you remembered what a nuisance I am, or that you were only caring for me out of a sense of obligation, and that you were going to leave me behind again. And the whole time,  _ you've _ been worried I wouldn't want you back in my life!" He pulled Geralt closer, eyes wet with tears but smiling like the sun, and Geralt felt its warmth washing over him. "I…I do forgive you, but it's going to take time to rebuild the trust we had. And we'll have to talk about being open with each other, so things like that don't have a chance to happen. Speaking of - where on  _ earth _ did that speech come from? That was more words at once and more emotional honesty than I ever saw from you in twenty years on the road together." The corners of Geralt's eyes crinkled as he smiled at that, looking a little  _ embarrassed _ of all things.

"Triss. Ostensibly, Yennefer was helping too, but it was mostly Triss. After a couple years I was getting… reckless, and stupid, and ended up badly wounded. She and Yenn helped patch me up, and Triss insisted on talking to me about why I'd let myself get injured like that when I should have known better." He gave a small snort that Jaskier knew well as a laugh, and continued, "I tried to strangle her, a couple of times. Not a fight I was going to win, of course, especially not bedridden, and eventually she managed to chip away at me enough to actually get through a little." Geralt gave Jaskier's hand a light squeeze, and grimaced slightly. "That was, I'll admit, a sort of… prepared speech. I'm still- it's- it's still not easy. For me to talk about things. But I've been trying." He was startled when Jaskier leaned forward a little, pulling him into a hug. He wrapped his arms carefully around the bard - the not-a-bard-at-present, rather - and closed his eyes, pressing his nose into Jaskier's hair and inhaling the soft, spicy-sweet scent of him. It was a little different now, more wolf-like, but still distinctly and perfectly Jaskier.

"In the interest of honesty, I must confess I've never been quite as open with my feelings as I let on." Jaskier pulled back just a little, nose-to-nose with Geralt, before cupping his jaw and trapping his mouth in a kiss that held two and a half decades of longing and love. Geralt was stiff with surprise at first, but melted quickly into the kiss. Jaskier's lips were soft and warm against his, just the slightest bit chapped, and his heart felt like it might burst it was so full. He deepened the kiss, pulling Jaskier closer, as close as he could without aggravating the other's injuries. When they finally broke for breath, Jaskier was looking at him with stars in his eyes. "Oh, I have waited a long time to do that."

"Hmm."

"Oh, come on. Don't go all silent on me now, you've been so talkative-" Geralt silenced him with another kiss, pulling away with a slight smirk.

"I've talked too much. I just want to do this."

"Well, as much as I would love to sit here kissing you all the night through, I-" He broke off with a wince as a particularly loud cry came from the main room. "Do you think we could find somewhere a little less… crowded, first?"

"Oh so  _ now _ you don't like crowded inns and big towns."

"Yes, yes, I'm sorry for dragging you into these awful fucking places for two decades. Now can we  _ go? _ "

Geralt kissed him again in reply, picking up their bags and holding his hands out for Jaskier, who rose a little shakily, but seemed to do alright as long as he could hang on to Geralt. They left the inn, the innkeeper's wife giving them a knowing smile as Geralt paid for the room and board. At least she didn't seem to take any issue with his being a witcher - he'd half expected an argument as he took Jaskier with him, particularly with how quickly she'd seemed to grow fond of the scrawny man.

They went to the stables, Jaskier leaning up against Roach once more as Geralt got her ready to leave. He mounted the horse, taking the saddle for himself this time after Jaskier assured him he'd be able to hang on from behind, and helped get Jaskier settled before urging Roach forward and out of the town.

"You still reek of death, by the way," Jaskier quipped as they got further and further from the intense odors of the town.

"I always reek of death, it's just bothering you because it's a wolf's death this time. Same way the smell of human death always bothers people more than animal death."

"Well I don't care for it either way. The next water we come across, you're taking a bath." Geralt smiled fondly, glad Jaskier couldn't see quite how easily he'd fallen for his charms again.

"If you say so. That reminds me, who did you piss off so bad they turned you into a wolf, anyway?"

"Witch in a forest somewhere. Didn't like that I'd taken some fruit from her garden.  _ Really _ didn't like that I'd taken some 'fruit' from her student, either."

Geralt rolled his eyes. He could feel Jaskier's cheeky grin against his back, the little shit. "Typical. How come you never sought out a cure?"

"Don't mind it, honestly. I didn't exactly go entirely feral like most folks, and as long as I keep mostly to myself and no one tries to  _ kill me, _ it really isn't that bad."

"You don't miss playing?"

"All my songs were about you." He sounded wistful when he said this, and Geralt felt a pang in his chest as he remembered how badly he'd hurt his companion.

"I'm sorry."

"I know." They rode in silence for a while then, until Jaskier thought to ask where they were actually headed.

"Towards Cintra. It's time I stop running from my problems and find Cirilla."

"Look at you, taking responsibility for your own fuckups. That's two in one night! I'm impressed." Geralt snorted, and Jaskier pressed on. "Do we know she's still near Cintra?"

"She'll be travelling alone, probably by foot. I'll doubt she'll be able to get far from the kingdom, if she even makes it past the borders." Jaskier hummed a quiet agreement, then yawned, his breath hot against Geralt's back. "Sleep, little lark. You're still healing."

"Little lark?"

"I can't very well call you bard anymore, can I?"

"Why don't you call me wolf?"

"I'm the wolf."

"I'm more wolf than you at this point."

"You earn the medallion, I'll call you wolf. For now? You're my lovely lark, and you need to rest." The affectionate terms felt clumsy and awkward on his tongue, but he knew they were the kind of thing Jaskier revelled in, and it was the least he could do as he tried to rebuild what they'd once had.

"Hmm. Fine." Jaskier yawned again, hugging himself closer to Geralt and settling in to sleep. They would still need time, both of them, but it was time he was happy to spend like this.


End file.
